Set in Silver
satin sheen. Beyond, in the background, gray houses and cottages grouped
together, the stone and slates worn shiny with age, like very old
marble, so that they reflected glints of colour from the rose and violet
sky.
By the time I was dressed for dinner it was sunset, and I went to sit on
the terrace and watch the splendid cloud pageant. I seemed to be the
only one of our party who had come down yet, though, to tell the whole,
_whole_ truth, I had had a sneaking idea Sir Lionel would perhaps be
strolling about with a cigarette, looking nice and slim, and young, and
soldierly in his dinner jacket. He is nicer to look at in that than in
almost anything else, I think, as most Englishmen are.
He wasn't there, however, so I had to admire his Cornish sunset without
him. And I had such fine thoughts about it, too!--at least they seemed
fine to me; and if I weren't quite a congenial friend of my own it would
have seemed a waste of good material to lavish them on myself alone.
I saw through the open door of the sunset, into Arthur's kingdom, where
he still rules, you know, and is lord of all. The whole west was a
Field-of-the-Cloth-of-Gold, and across the blaze of golden glory rode
dark shapes of cloud, purple and crimson, violet and black. They were
Arthur's knights tilting in tournament, while the Queen of Beauty and
her attendant ladies looked on. Now and then, as I watched, a knight
fell, and a horse tore away riderless, his gold-'broidered trappings
floating on the wind. When this happened, out of the illumined sea would
writhe a glittering dragon, or scaly heraldic beast, to prance or fly
along the horizon after the vanishing charger of the fallen knight.
Sometimes the rushing steed would swim to a fairy island or siren-rock
that floated silver-pale on the shining water, or jutted dark out of a
creamy line of breakers; and though I knew that the knights and ladies
and wondrous animals were but inhabitants of Sunset Kingdom, Limited,
and that the glimmering islands and jagged rocks would dissolve by and
by into cloud-wreaths, they all looked as real as the long tongue of
land beyond which North Devon crouched hiding. And the colour flamed so
fiercely in the sky that I was half afraid the sun must be on fire.
As I sat there watching the last of the knights ride away, three people
came out of the hotel and stood on the terrace. I just gave them one
glance, and went back to the sunset, but somehow I got the feeling that
they were looking at me, and talking about me.
Presently they began to walk up and down, and as they passed in front of
my seat, they turned an interested gaze upon me. All I had known about
them until then was that they were a trio: a man, a woman, and a boy,
with conventional backs; but as they turned, I recognized the man and
the woman.
You would never guess who they were, so I'll tell you. Do you remember
the people for whom you talked Italian at Venice four years and a half
ago, the day we arrived, and there was a strike, and no porters to carry
anybody's luggage? Well, here they were at Tintagel! I was perfectly
certain of this in an instant, and I realized why they were so
interested in me. They thought they had seen me before, but perhaps were
not sure.
Anyway, they walked on, and only the boy looked back. He was dressed in
Eton clothes, and was exactly like all other boys, except that he had
mischievous eyes and a bored mouth--almost as dangerous a combination in
a boy, I should think, as a box of matches and a barrel of gunpowder.
I thought that he was probably their son, and that, as he had nothing
better to do, he was wondering about me. I would have given a lot to
know what they were saying, and whether Venice was in their minds or
not, but I could do nothing except hope they might not place me
mentally. I wouldn't get up and go in, because that would have been too
cowardly; and besides, if they were staying in the hotel, I should
certainly run up against them afterward.
I had just decided to face it out, and had put on a forbidding
expression, when along came Sir Lionel, so I had to take off the
expression and fold it away for future emergencies. He was smoking one
of those cigarettes which go so well with sunsets, and he had seen the
King Arthur sky-tournament from the other side of the house. He said he
had not supposed I should be down so soon, but was hoping that I hadn't
missed the show, wherever I was. He threw away his cigarette--which is
one of his old-fashioned tricks if he sees a woman, never even waiting
to know if she minds--and asked if he might sit on the seat by me. That
was old-fashioned, too, wasn't it? The Dick Burdens of the world plump
themselves down by girls without worrying to get permission. They think
female things will be too flattered for words, by a condescending male
desire to be near them.
I told you how nice Sir Lionel looks in evening clothes, didn't I?
You've no idea what a perfect shape his head is; and a large lake of
white shirt under a little black silk bow is particularly becoming to a
clean-shaven man with a very tanned skin--though I don't know why. One
would think it might have the opposite effect. And Sir Lionel does tie
his necktie so nicely, with a kind of careless precision which comes
right of itself, like everything he does. (You will think all this is
silly, and it is; but I keep noticing things about him, and liking them,
so I tell you, because I may have prejudiced you against him at first,
as Ellaline prejudiced me.)
We were beginning to have a good talk about Cornwall, and quaint Cornish
ways and superstitions, when out of the house came Mrs. Senter. The
Venice people had just passed again, and were near the hotel door as she
appeared.
"Why, Sallie and George!" she exclaimed.
And "Why, Gwen!" the Venice lady answered.
They shook hands, the boy and all, and though Sir Lionel didn't pay much
attention to what was going on, I couldn't keep up our conversation.
"Suppose they tell Mrs. Senter they met me in Venice!" I said to myself.
"What _shall_ I do?"
Out of one corner of my eye I saw that they did speak of me, and she
threw a quick, eager glance in my direction. A minute or two later they
all strolled on together, until they had come in front of our seat.
There Mrs. Senter paused, and said, "Sir Lionel, these are my friends,
Mr. and Mrs. Tyndal, of whom I think I must have spoken to you, and this
is their cousin, Mr. Tom Tyndal. They are touring in their motor, and
arrived here this afternoon, a little before us. Quite a coincidence,
isn't it?" And then, as if on second thoughts, she added me to the
introduction.
"Quite a coincidence," indeed! It never rains, but it pours
coincidences, on any head that is developing a criminal record.
The Tyndals paid Sir Lionel compliments, and seemed to be delighted to
meet him, evidently regarding him as a great celebrity, which, I
suppose, he really is. Then, when they had made him sufficiently
uncomfortable (compliments are to him what a sudden plague of locusts
would be to most men), they turned to me.
"Surely we have met before, Miss Lethbridge?" remarked Mrs. Tyndal. And
you ought to have seen how Mrs. Senter's features sharpened, as she
waited for me to stammer or blush.
As far as the blush was concerned, she had her money's worth; and I only
didn't stammer because I was obliged to stop and think before replying.
I almost worshipped Sir Lionel when he answered for me, in a quick,
positive way he has, which there seems no gainsaying. I suppose men who
live in the East cultivate that, as it keeps natives from arguing and
answering back.
"Impossible," said he, "unless it was at Versailles, where my ward has
been at school since she was a very small child, with no holidays except
at St. Cloud."
"Mightn't it have been at Paris?" obligingly suggested Mrs. Senter,
determined I shouldn't be let off, if conviction of any sort were
possible.
"No, I don't think it was at Paris," murmured Mrs. Tyndal, reflectively,
eyeing me in the sunset light, which was turning to pure amethyst. "Now,
where _could_ it have been? I seem to associate your face with--with
Italy."
Oh, my goodness! She _was_ getting "warm" in our game of "hide the
handkerchief."
"She has never been to Italy," said Sir Lionel, beginning to look rather
cross, as if Mrs. Tyndal were taking liberties with his belongings--of
which, you see, he thinks me one.
"Not even--Venice?" she persisted. "Oh, yes, _that_ is it! Now I know
where I seem to have seen you--at Venice. You remember, don't you,
George?"
By this time sparks had lighted up in Sir Lionel's eyes, as if he were a
Turk, and one of the ladies of his harem were unjustly suspected.
"It is impossible for Mr. Tyndal to remember what didn't happen," he
said, dropping a lump of ice into his voice. "You saw someone who looked
like her in Venice, perhaps, but not my ward."
I was almost sorry for the poor Tyndals, who meant no harm, though they
had the air of being so frightfully rich and prosperous that it seemed
ridiculous to pity them.
"Of course, it could only have been a resemblance," said Mr. Tyndal,
with that snubby glare at Mrs. Tyndal which husbands and wives keep for
each other.
"It must have been," she responded, taking up her cue; for naturally
they didn't want to begin their acquaintance with a distinguished person
by offending him.
These signs of docility caused Sir Lionel to relent and come down off
his high horse. Whenever he has been at all haughty or impatient with
his sister (whose denseness would sometimes try a saint) he is sorry in
a minute, and tries to be extra nice. It was the same now in the case of
the poor Tyndals, whose Etonian cousin had all the time been gazing up
at him with awed adoration, as of a hero on a pedestal; and suddenly a
quaint thought struck me. I remembered about the Bengalese Sir Lionel
was supposed to have executed for some offence or other, and I could see
him being sorry immediately afterward, tearing around trying to stick
their heads on again, and saying pleasant words.
Well, he stuck the Tyndals' heads on very kindly, so that they almost
forgot they'd ever been slashed off; and when Mrs. Norton came out,
which she did in a few minutes, looking as if she'd washed the dust off
her face with kitchen soap, we all strolled up and down together, till
it was time for dinner.
Mrs. Tyndal walked with me, but not a word did she say about Venice.
That subject was to be tabooed, but I'm far from sure she was convinced
of her mistake, and she couldn't overcome her intense interest in my
features. However, she seems good-natured, as if even to please Mrs.
Senter she wouldn't care to do me a bad turn. Only, I don't think people
do things from motives as a rule, do you? They just suddenly find they
want to do them, and presto, the things are done! That's why the world's
so exciting.
We chatted non-committally of cabbages and kings and automobiles; and I
recalled tracing pneu-tracks like illusive lights and shadows before us
on the damp road, as we spun into Tintagel. No doubt they were the pneus
of the Tyndals.
Their table was next ours in the dining room, so close that motor-chat
was tossed back and forth, and it appeared that Mr. Tyndal was as proud
of his car as a cat of its mouse. Mrs. Tyndal's mice are her jewels, and
she has droves of them, which she displayed at dinner. Afterward she did
lace-work, which made her rings gleam beautifully, and she said she
didn't particularly like doing it, but it was something to "kill time."
How awful! But I suppose frightfully rich people are like that. They
sometimes get fatty degeneration of the soul.
Well, nothing more happened that evening, except that the Tyndal boy and